


The eyeballs, the PTSD, or the Knives?

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hypervigilance, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22758349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: “Why are youlike this?”“Are you talking about the eyeballs, the PTSD, or the knives?”
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Tumblr Ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636204
Comments: 21
Kudos: 853





	The eyeballs, the PTSD, or the Knives?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you're reading this on a paid subscription app, did you know that you can read it for free on archiveofourown.org? You can search for my username or the story title. I write these for free, to be read for free, and any app developers who profit off the back of that should know that deepthroating the boot of capitalism comes with an increased risk of guillotine related illness. They do not have my permission to host this story.

Stiles breathed deeply into the crisp air of the night. The familiar nocturnal sounds of the woods around him focused his mind. 

The prepared ritual wasn’t complicated. Gross, yes, but Stiles had yet to find one that wasn’t at least a little puke-inducing. In the last year he’d worked with dead insects, bird tongues, and a literal gallon of warlock semen. 

He preferred to think of that last one as little as possible. 

Tonight it was eyeballs. Just three, so at least they were easy to carry on the three mile hike to the ritual site. He settled them into the rune circle and kneeled just outside the markings, his long fingers dug into the dirt. He allowed his focus to shift more to the task at hand, his instincts continuing to track the sounds of the night in the back of his mind. 

Well, the “ _back”_ of his mind might be a little misleading. He hadn’t been able to stop scanning for danger for months now. It was always his first thought, his first worry, his first plan. So perhaps it wasn’t happening in the “back” of his mind. He would settle for middle. 

He tried to focus on the ritual again, but a particularly loud hoot from an owl made his hand twitch to his knives. He cursed silently and dug his fingers back into the ground, starting over. His heart beat loudly in his ears, sounding like footsteps. Old, slow footsteps. Like Gerard on the stairs-

The crack of a twig sent Stiles’ hands straight to his knives, out and flying, handle over wicked tip at nearly invisible speed. One thudded deeply into the meat of a shoulder, and the other stopped just before embedding into a throat. 

Peter’s throat. 

“Excuse you.” 

Adrenaline pounded through Stiles, his fight or flight instincts screaming at him to throw more sharp objects, or heavy objects, or possibly the eyeballs. Anything really. 

“Jesus _fuck,”_ he said vehemently, breathing hard and gripping his third knife even harder. He watched Peter inspect the blade in his shoulder before pulling it out with a grunt. He slowly advanced on Stiles, who was still strung tight as a bow string. 

“You look like you’re set up for quite a party,” he said casually, glancing over the rune circle. Stiles looked at him intently, checking for discrepancies against his mind’s picture of Peter. Blue eyes, thick thighs, stupid v-neck stretched across a ridiculously broad chest… It seemed like him, asshole good looks and all. But Stiles wasn’t sure. Senses could easily be thrown off by a ritual gone wrong… 

Peter’s eyes drifted from the runes to Stiles, scanning over him. His tight lips gave way to abrupt exasperation. 

“Why are you _like this?”_ he sighed. 

Stiles relaxed. 

This was definitely Peter. No spectre of magic would be so dramatic. 

“Are you talking about the eyeballs, the PTSD, or the knives?” Stiles shot back, suddenly keenly aware that his hypervigilance had caused him to stab Peter. He cringed a little. 

“I’m _talking_ about your _shoes,”_ Peter answered, stalking around behind Stiles, where his feet still stuck out behind his kneeling form. Peter dropped the knives unceremoniously to the ground next to them, reaching for the Converse on Stiles’ foot to poke it in disgust. “These are _duct taped,_ Stiles.”

“If it’s good enough for Roscoe, it’s good enough for my shoes,” Stiles said staunchly, picking knives one and two up to replace them next to knives three through six. He’d have to remember to wash the blood off when he got home. 

“First of all, duct tape is _not_ good enough for Roscoe, so that line of logic is a non-starter, and second of all you can’t hike through the woods at night in duct taped canvas shoes, Stiles!”

“That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I just did that,” Stiles said, looking back at the rune circle. One of the eyeballs was looking at him. Judgmentally. He flipped it off. 

“What are you doing out here in the first place?” Peter asked, still eyeing the shoes with malice. 

Stiles sighed. He might as well say, since it would only take Peter a moment to look it up once he got home. 

“The ritual of threefold foresight.” 

Peter stilled, finally looking away from the offenses on Stiles’ feet. 

“Foresight? I thought things were quiet. Is there something you’re looking for?” 

“That’s just it,” Stiles said, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “It’s _too_ quiet. It can’t last. I keep watching and waiting, and I just- if I can get a glimpse into the future, then maybe I can- maybe-” He sighed again, this time a bitter burst of air. “Or maybe nothing really is coming. Maybe the ritual will show nothing, and I’ll finally be able to sleep without waking up at the sound of every breeze.” 

Peter was silent for a moment. Stiles continued staring back at the judgemental eyeball, startling when Peter touched his shoulder. 

“Do you need someone to keep watch so you can focus on the ritual?” he asked, face serious when Stiles looked at him. 

Stiles’ throat suddenly went tight. His eyes burned a little, and he had no idea why. He nodded. Peter squeezed his shoulder once, and then stood up, moving so his back was to the rune circle. Watching the woods. 

Stiles took another deep breath of crisp night air. The familiar nocturnal sounds of the woods around him focused his mind. 

The sight of Peter close by settled him. 

He shifted awareness of his surrounding to the back of his mind- the actual back of his mind this time- and started the ritual. 


End file.
